


Aftermath

by sgam76



Series: With a Little Help From My Friends [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Because this is about sentiment when you come right down to it, Family Feels, Gen, Holmes Brothers, Introspection, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mycroft Holmes rethinks his life, Mycroft has logically decided to embrace sentiment, Post-TFP, Somewhat Fluffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-25
Updated: 2018-09-25
Packaged: 2019-07-17 07:58:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16091381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sgam76/pseuds/sgam76
Summary: Everyone speaks of an "aftermath" in the wake of a life-changing event, and that aftermath is generally negative. For Mycroft Holmes, though, Sherrinford and his subsequent confrontation with Rudy Vernet has led him down an entirely different path. He's always sneered at homilies and old sayings. But in this case, "it's an ill wind that blows no good" has proven to be surprisingly, shockingly, accurate.





	Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

> This is a direct sequel to With a Little Help From My Friends, and takes place two years later. While it does stand alone for the most part, I would strongly recommend reading that work first, as some important parts will not completely make sense otherwise.
> 
> This rose out of my re-reading my own work, and realizing that one of the things Mycroft says in that work is that "he is as (his uncle) made him". But, the more I thought about it, the more I believed that "my" Mycroft would reject that--that, as he told Sherlock, he would not "become" Rudy Vernet, that he didn't want to. And if that was the case, what DID he want to become? And that lead me here. It's unabashedly soft, and I can understand if you feel that Mycroft is wildly OOC. But, as he says himself, it's a choice. He wanted to change, and he did.

Sherlock was sitting in front of his laptop, clad in pajamas, old t-shirt and soft purple socks (a gift from Mrs. Hudson) when John got home with Rosie from nursery. The detective looked over his shoulder, waved at the toddler, and gestured John over fervently.

“You’ll never believe it!” he said. “My brother has _reproduced!_ ” His tone couldn’t decide whether to be scandalized or titillated.

John plunked Rosie down in Sherlock’s lap, then dropped into his own chair. “Seriously?” he said. “I didn’t know they—I mean Carmella never said anything on her webpage, nor did your mum when we saw your parents last.” Carmella was an avid blogger; she maintained a webpage covering her personal investigations of obscure historical sites, but the blog often veered into more personal areas. Sherlock treasured a description of his brother having to be rescued from a secret chamber in a derelict chateau. (The rescue had involved a forklift. Never let it be said that Sherlock didn’t go for the obvious joke).

“Nor did I,” Sherlock said. He’d settled on titillated. “Mummy will be _livid_. I’m quite looking forward to the ceremony, under the circumstances.”

“What ceremony?” John asked, while handing over a cup of sliced apples from the fridge for his daughter.

Sherlock fished two slices out of the cup and popped them in his mouth, ignoring Rosie’s offended squawk. “Christening,” he mumbled around apple crumbs. “In Tuscany. A week from Sunday.” He looked thoughtful for a moment before continuing. “We need to get you a suit, and Watson an appropriately grotesque party dress.”

“I have a suit.  Two, in fact,” John sniffed, while starting on tea for the two of them. “And I think I’ll let Mrs. Hudson pick out a dress—she’s better at it than I am, and has a better grasp of the concept of a ‘budget’ than you do.”

“Are your suits good enough for a ceremony including several minor royals and an archduke or two?” Sherlock asked, with a sniff to let John know where _he_ stood on the question. “Because they will definitely be in attendance.  And I’ve just messaged my mother about the dress—you know how much she enjoys that kind of shopping, John.”

John resigned himself to having both he and his daughter clad to the Holmeses’ exacting requirements. Sherlock would very likely charge the suit to Mycroft, anyway.

He brought both teacups and a packet of shortbread in and dropped into his chair with a huff. Rosie tired of her apples and wandered over to play with her collection of periodic table blocks, periodically ordering “Sock” to look at the results and tell her what compound she’d made. John suspected he made most of them up.

“So, why Tuscany?” John asked, chewing appreciatively. “Would have thought they’d want to have the ceremony in Surrey. Easier for the royals to get there, if nothing else,” he added with an eyeroll.

“For Carmella’s family,” Sherlock said. “Her grandmother is very old and not very healthy, so a trip to England would be out of the question. My parents, in contrast, are practically panting to be entertained at the family palazzo. They’ve been vying for an invitation since the wedding, you know, but Mycroft has been, wisely, quite cagey about allowing them time alone with her.”

“Oh, stop,” John said. “Your parents are lovely people, and they adore Carmella.”

“They’d adore any woman willing to take my brother, at this juncture,” Sherlock sneered. “And now she’s given them a grandchild—my God, they’ll cut me out of the will entirely!”

“Mycroft always insists you’re their favorite,” John chuckled. “And you’ve already given them a grandchild,” he continued, pointing his chin at Rosie. “Well, essentially, anyway.”

Sherlock looked much struck by that. “And she’ll always be the _eldest_ grandchild, as well,” he said, with a fair amount of smugness. “As Mycroft has been known to point out, birth order is of prime importance in family relationships.”

“Don’t think that’s exactly what he meant, but OK,” John said, and went back to his biscuits.

 

 

 

Carmella had been one of the few good things that came out of the whole Sherrinford debacle. Mycroft, in what seemed to John to be a very un-Mycroftian fashion, had come away from the experience a changed man, at least in some ways.

He was still Mycroft, of course—brilliant, smug, occasionally overbearing. But, over the ensuing months, the Great Man came to see his brother more often. Actually came to _see_ him, not to drag his reluctant sibling into some demoralizing government scheme or berate him for his myriad failings or gloat over some real or imagined points he had managed to score over his little brother. Sherlock, at first wary as a stray dog, had slowly relaxed into this new dynamic. Mycroft came to dinner (takeaway, usually, though once or twice Mrs. H. insisted on providing something); Sherlock, John and Rosie went to dinner at his (still dreadfully overstuffed) manse; he and Sherlock went to opera and theatre performances ( _not_ musicals, by God), dressed to the nines, on a semi-regular basis.

It was weird, at first. John kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, and he suspected Sherlock felt the same. But they gradually relaxed into the New Normal, and John discovered that Mycroft could actually be quite good company, when he wanted to—well-read, with wide-ranging interests and a lethally dry sense of humour.

And then, roughly 8 months after they all very nearly died, came Carmella. They arrived at Mycroft’s home for dinner, brushing a bit of snow off their shoulders, to be greeted by their host and a tall, handsome woman, with dark hair and light eyes.

“Carmella D’Ambrosio,” she said simply, holding out her hand and speaking in a warm, slightly-accented voice. “Mycroft and I are very old friends.”

Over pre-dinner drinks, they learned the basics: she had been the wife, for a number of years, of one of Mycroft’s schoolmates who worked in the Foreign Service, so they had encountered each other socially at many events in diplomatic circles. Even after her divorce she continued to be invited to such functions; a pretty, charming, _single_ woman from an ancient family was an asset, if only for her novelty.

The way this particular dinner had come to pass was more interesting (well, to John, at least. He was pretty sure Sherlock had yet to pick up on the nuances here). The two had also had regular contact through an online competitive chess club—Mycroft, John knew, was terrifyingly good, and it was implied that Carmella was not far behind, given that she had been a regular competitor of his. A month or so before, Mycroft had extended an invitation to dinner while Carmella was in London for an embassy soiree, and things had progressed from there.

She actually used that word: “progressed”. Sherlock’s eyebrows abruptly rose up under his fringe. As he started to open his mouth to say something, though, John reached out and briskly pinched the back of his arm. Sherlock’s mouth shut like a trap.

Three months later, Mellie Holmes called to tell Sherlock that his brother was engaged, and that they were all expected to attend the party in Surrey the following week. It didn’t escape John’s notice that Mycroft had _not_ come to deliver the news himself.

John was shocked; Sherlock—to be honest, Sherlock was unsettled. For far too long, he had insisted to John that this entire relationship was some kind of Byzantine plot on his brother’s part. Mycroft, when Sherlock had brashly announced his opinion at one of their bi-weekly dinners, rolled his eyes, but restrained his response to a statesmanlike “No.”

 

 

 

The party, and the ensuing wedding a month later, had passed without drama of any kind. The setting for the wedding was intimate—a restored medieval home not far from the Holmeses’ Surrey cottage--and the guest list was short. Well, short-ish. Family, obviously, including Carmella’s delightful parents and a cousin who acted as bridesmaid; Anthea and one or two other members of Mycroft’s staff; Greg Lestrade; the entire family of Alistair Hardy, Mycroft’s oldest friend, who stood as Mycroft’s Best Man. He had asked Sherlock, first, but understood when the detective expressed apprehension at creating another Best Man speech, to be made in front of Carmella’s family. It was telling that Sherlock’s concern was not entirely for his own discomfort, but partially that he might inadvertently spoil the day. That alone spoke to the tectonic shift in their relationship.

After the wedding, Mycroft and his bride settled into an unconventional domesticity. Carmella, by necessity, spent at least thirty percent of her time in Tuscany; she was her parents’ only child, heiress to their minor but prestigious title, and had various social responsibilities to meet. She also helped manage the family vineyard, in tandem with her father. Mycroft, of course, travelled often as well. But he had told John, at one of their dinners that Carmella also attended, that they made a point of spending at least one week out of every month together, be it in Italy, England, or some intermediate point between. John thought it all sounded rather exciting, actually—jet-setting with an actual purpose beyond just entertainment.

For John, one of the best parts of all of this had been observing the interactions of the brothers with this new person in the mix. Sherlock, after maintaining an initial wary distance, had since settled into a comfortable, teasing relationship, much like that which he enjoyed with Anthea. He _liked_ Carmella, and it showed. It was also, thankfully, reciprocated.

And Mycroft—that, that was a revelation. No, it wasn’t a grand, sweeping love affair—no acts of overwhelming passion, no flaring scenes, virtually no drama. But what they clearly shared was a deep, warm, rather sweet affection (much though Sherlock rolled his eyes and gagged theatrically when John first expressed that opinion). When Carmella entered a room, the bureaucrat’s eyes immediately went to her; he gravitated to her side like a magnet in every gathering. In her turn, Carmella treated Mycroft with visible care, taking his hand and holding it in her lap when they shared the sofa, standing to massage his shoulders after a particularly bad day, when Sherlock, John and Rosie showed up for dinner only to have Mycroft come hurrying in half an hour late, frowning and tense. When she finished, leaning to give her husband a kiss on his forehead, the former Iceman lifted his head unselfconsciously, closed his eyes in pleasure and gave her hand a courtly buss. As John said, _sweet_. Unexpected, but sweet.

 

 

 

 

The trip to Tuscany was…long, mostly. Sherlock only flew if he had to, and had to be lightly drugged (usually with antihistamines) to do it—too loud, too close quarters. Flying with an almost-three-year-old was difficult as well, though the drone of the engine sent Rosie off to sleep quickly. Thankfully they weren’t required to fly commercial—Mycroft shuttled their group, his parents, and Anthea on his private plane, so it was much more comfortable than it might have been. John felt free to leave Rosie and Sherlock slumbering side-by-side in their seats while he had a nice chat and lunch with the others in the lounge area. The two hours passed comfortably, seeming shorter than they were.

The D’Ambrosio palazzo was located near San Gimignano, about an hour’s drive southwest of Florence. John was glad to recognize Andrew, Mycroft’s long-time driver, standing beside the first of two luxury cars waiting on the tarmac. The elder Holmeses took the second car, along with Anthea, leaving the first to John, Rosie and Sherlock. Andrew, who had known Sherlock since the detective was a spiky teen, tutted at his still-groggy, monosyllabic state and tucked him carefully into the front passenger seat, leaving the back to John and a fascinated Rosie. While Sherlock dozed, John and Andrew had a pleasant gossip, punctuated regularly by Rosie’s “What dat?” questions on the passing scenery.

They arrived at the D’Ambrosio’s Renaissance palazzo just at four, with the sun beginning to ebb towards twilight. Andrew had called ahead to notify the security staff that he was five minutes out, so they arrived to see Mycroft and Carmella standing under the ornate porte cochere at the head of the large paved square in front of the building.

Rosie immediately reached imperiously for Mycroft; he was a great favourite of hers, especially since he had begun to hide tiny little treats in his waistcoat pocket every now and again. The Great Man swept her up graciously, leaning her over so Carmella could give her a quick kiss before turning to her in-laws. Mellie and Siger made all the appropriate noises about their hostess and the palazzo, while Sherlock rolled his eyes at his brother (with his back carefully turned to his mother, just in case) and swept John inside.

Their first stop, though, was the nursery, to see the object of their trip. John took Rosie from Mycroft and told her, quite sternly, that she had to be very, very careful around the baby, and quiet if he was asleep. Rosie nodded, held her little finger across her lips, and whispered “shhhhh” very seriously.

He wasn’t quite asleep, as it happened. “He’s due a feed in a bit,” Carmella said quietly. “But he apparently likes to have a bit of a think first, as a rule.”

He was a pretty baby; a wisp of strawberry-blonde hair on top, with pale golden skin. But, when John drew closer, the baby turned his head slightly, and John gave a bit of a start—for there, looking back at him, were Sherlock’s eyes.

He must have made a small sound, because he heard a light chuckle from Mycroft behind him. “Yes,” he said, “I am fully aware of the irony.”

Mellie, to his other side, was oblivious to their interchange. “Myc, he looks just like you,” she caroled, as Carmella beamed.

“Not exactly,” Sherlock said, giving his brother a lift of an eyebrow.

Rosie wriggled violently, demanding to be put down. After reminding her once again to be quiet and careful, John did, and the little girl crept up to the edge of the cot and peered inside.

“Dat baby,” she said.

“Yes,” Mycroft replied seriously. Mellie, Carmella and Siger looked on, quite enchanted.

“What him’s name?” she asked, reaching a hand in to touch one chubby leg, very gently.

“Louis Kenelm James Holmes,” Mycroft intoned. He paused, noting Rosie’s open mouth. “It’s rather a long name for a little fellow, I know. But he will get bigger soon enough.”

Rosie looked back at the baby. “Es,” she said, doubtfully.

“Kenny it is, then,” Sherlock chirped, and gained a scowl from his brother and mother both.

 

 

 

The lead-up to the christening, two days in all, was fairly entertaining. That first evening, various members of Carmella’s family arrived to help with the final planning, and they had an informal late dinner, in two languages and an array of family-style serving platters. The following morning, the guests started trickling in, in some cases accompanied by groups of serious-looking men and women in dark suits and earpieces. Anthea was constantly in motion, ensuring that each delegation knew their rooms and their place in the Cathedral for the ceremony the next day. The dinner that evening was very much a diplomatic reception, held in the ornate Renaissance ballroom of the palazzo.

Rosie wasn’t in attendance at this function; she and Kenelm were tucked happily up in the nursery with Nanny Miriam, an energetic young woman who, John was quite sure, had skills not usually found in caretakers. Anthea clearly approved; that was a big enough clue for John. Rosie approved as well; she was fascinated by Miriam’s long, red-gold curls, giving them gentle pats to make them spring back. When John and Sherlock left the nursery after showing her their finery for the dinner, the toddler gave them a cheery wave and wandered back to play with Miriam’s hair some more.

John was seated on Carmella’s left side at the table. John counted under his breath—by the time they were all in their places, there were more than 100 guests, when you included their retinues. Noting his roving eyes, Carmella touched his hand and spoke, very quietly. “It’s serving several purposes,” she said, “although of course celebrating the baby’s christening is foremost. I’m paying off several years’ worth of family obligations at once, and Mycroft’s included some of the foreign parties who are most impressed by this kind of thing.” She gave a slightly cynical smile. “And they’ve brought the loveliest gifts!”

Sherlock, seated to John’s left, leaned in at that point. “Mummy used to do much the same, when I was small. They held an annual Christmas party, and invited those people that she didn’t want to be troubled with for the rest of the year. One night and you’re done, and you can pay someone else to do the cooking and clean up the mess.”

“You don’t do either of those things anyway,” John said. Carmella smiled; Sherlock smirked but stayed silent.

 

 

 

 

After dinner, servants came and cleared away the tables, and the small orchestra that had played quietly throughout the meal resettled themselves and added a few members, tuning up for the evening’s dancing.  Microphones on stands were placed to ensure the music was heard clearly throughout the room, but before the orchestra struck up, Carmella’s father stood and gave a lengthy, heartfelt speech in Italian that had Carmella and her mother teary-eyed and Mycroft giving a dignified smile while clutching his wife’s hand. John glanced over and noted that the elder Holmeses were in a similar state to Carmella—they evidently spoke Italian as well.

The dancing went well; Carmella was the belle of the ball, but Mycroft proved quite popular as well, and was surprisingly competent. Sherlock, though, was a master—he very much did his duty by his brother, seeking out foreign ladies of a certain age and wafting them competently around the floor. John did fine himself, but he knew his limitations—anything beyond a slow waltz found him sitting on the sidelines, nursing a glass of wine and smiling. He chuckled to see first Mycroft, and then Sherlock, dance with their mother before escorting her carefully back to their beaming father. Towards the end of the evening, Sherlock also took a turn with Carmella, who touched his cheek in thanks when he gave her a courtly bow at the end of the set.

By midnight, the last stragglers had given their thanks to their hosts and staggered off to their rooms. Carmella had waved a weary goodnight before heading thankfully off to bed. After a quick check in the nursery with Nanny Miriam, John wandered back to the downstairs study the Holmes brothers had set up as their base, and found Sherlock sprawled, shoes kicked off, on the sofa, while Mycroft sat, tie undone, in a leather chair by the fire.

Mycroft looked up at his entry and waved a hand towards the tray on a table by the windows. “Tea,” he said. “I, for one, have had quite enough wine for one evening. Regardless of how good that wine was.”

“Agreed,” John said. “Like to able to walk to my room under my own power, ta.”

The three sat in companionable silence for several minutes before Sherlock spoke.

“I was somewhat surprised that Rudy has not yet arrived,” he said. He didn’t phrase it as a question, but Mycroft heard it nonetheless.

“He was not invited,” he said, taking a sip of his tea.

John sat up straighter in his chair. Rudy was very much a sore point with him.

“And how did you explain that to Mummy?” Sherlock asked carefully.

“I told her why,” his brother said. “The truth, including what you shared with me about his attempt to ‘bribe’ you back to MI6. I gave it a great deal of thought, and came to the conclusion that it was necessary, for several reasons. First and foremost, it precludes Rudy undertaking a rear-guard action of his own that might sway her to his side. And second…” he paused, as if considering, “among a number of other changes in my life, I decided that there have been too many secrets held amongst us, for insufficient reason. So, here we are.”

Sherlock blinked. “And how did that go?”

The older man gave a rueful grin. “I had to spend considerable effort dissuading her from an immediate trip to Paris. Firearms were mentioned, as were sharp objects. Father refused to let her call any of her former associates as well, but I’m not convinced she’s not still plotting.”

John, as it happened, was on Mellie’s side in this. Sherlock, returning from his brother’s in the aftermath of the worst family dinner in recorded history, had been deeply hungover and still shaken by his conversation with his brother the previous evening. John had shamelessly taken advantage of his weakened condition to winnow the whole story out of him. Sherlock, too, had then had to rather forcibly restrain John from his own trip to Paris.

Sherlock gave a slight smile now, but then closed his eyes and pinched his fingers at the top of his nose before settling back in the cushions with a groan. Mycroft turned sharp eyes his way.

“Migraine?” he asked. “The noise?”

“Mm,” Sherlock hummed. “Started about an hour ago. Not too bad yet, but increasing rapidly.” He’d been prone to migraines since his return, the result of a beer bottle to the head in a Russian bar while he was Away. One of his triggers was extended exposure to loud noises. Unfortunately, the ballroom’s high ceilings made it ring like a Renaissance-styled echo chamber.

“Did you bring your meds?” John asked. He’d prescribed them; they weren’t terribly effective (they’d not found anything that was, really), but at least they sedated the detective enough that he slept through the worst of it.

“In my room,” Sherlock groaned, and made to stand.

“Sit,” Mycroft said instantly, typing quickly into his phone. “We have more than enough excess help. They’ll be here shortly.”

Twenty minutes later, Sherlock’s medication had kicked in, his body relaxing, eyes closing. He gradually slumped further into the cushions, until almost perpendicular. Mycroft stood, picked up his brother’s shoeless feet and swung his legs up to the couch, then gently persuaded him to lie flat. Then he draped a velvet throw over his dozing sibling and went back to his own comfortable chair.

The bureaucrat became aware of John’s silence, and looked over enquiringly. “What?” he asked.

John smiled, and shook his head. “Nothing, really,” he said. “It’s just—you’re good at that, you know.”

“I’ve had rather a lot of practice,” Mycroft said wryly. He stood, and poured small servings of brandy for each of them. “Just enough to encourage sleep,” he said, and sat back down.

After a moment’s comfortable silence, John asked a question he hoped didn’t offend his host. “Mycroft,” he said, “what led to this? How did you go from Sherrinford, to Carmella, to this?” He waved his hand to encompass the room, the building, fatherhood. “Don’t misunderstand, I think it’s brilliant. But…”

“But it seems unlikely?” Mycroft said. “Out of character? Totally unexpected?” He didn’t seem offended, thankfully.

John nodded. “Just…yeah. A bit.”

Mycroft nodded in his turn. “It is. It was, to the person I was, two years ago. But, after my…realization about our uncle’s involvement in our lives, after our confrontation, after considerable thought about what that had meant, for both my family and me, I woke one morning with one rather singular thought: I had no idea what _I_ actually wanted in my life.” He sipped his brandy, considering.

John thought about that. “But surely…I mean, much though it drives Sherlock mental, you’re very good at what you do. _Very_ good. And you’ve always seemed to enjoy it, what I’ve seen, anyway.”

Mycroft nodded. “Quite right. And I have every intention to continue. But, the more I considered it, the more I realized that I had allowed that to be my all, just as my uncle had intended, just as my uncle has always done himself. And it dawned on me that that was _not_ what I wanted. So I spent some time considering what, other than my work, gave me fulfillment. And I saw that my family, maddening though they can be and often are, were nonetheless a source of that for me. When Sherlock was young, I treasured him, though I will threaten you with grievous bodily harm if you repeat that to him today. I envy the relationship my parents share, and would like to build something similar. And, because I am not in the first bloom of youth, it behooved me to take action to make those things happen. To be honest, Carmella was an unexpected boon—I never considered, never thought that she…well. And then Kenelm—again, a gift I never assumed I would receive.” He smiled—Sherlock’s smile, John realized, the true one that other people rarely saw.

“An abundance of riches,” John said, and raised his glass in salute. “You made a logical decision to indulge in sentiment.” He smiled back, to take any possible sting out of the gentle teasing.

“Indeed,” Mycroft said, raising his own and draining it. Then he put the glass on the side table and stood with a mild groan, before going over to gently rouse Sherlock.

“Come now, brother mine,” he said, lacing his arm around Sherlock’s waist to pull him up. “Bed.” He looked over his shoulder as he half-walked, half-carried the semi-conscious detective to the door. “Have a good night, John.”

“You as well,” John said, and headed off to his own room, feeling lighter than he had in a very long time.

 

 

 

The next morning started rather later than originally planned, for which both John and Sherlock were profoundly grateful. Sherlock still felt the lingering effects of his migraine, but couldn’t take another dose of his medicine, for obvious reasons; John (and, amusingly, Mycroft) was just hungover. They made a matched set, to hear Carmella tell it.

Thankfully, the christening had been set for an early afternoon mass, rather than morning, so they had the leeway to edge into things relatively slowly. A huge breakfast/brunch buffet had been set up on long tables in the ballroom, so that everyone could wander in at their own leisure. While Rosie chattered happily with Carmella and shoved handfuls of French toast and scrambled eggs into her mouth, John forced coffee, toast and two paracetamol down Sherlock while eating his own breakfast. By eleven, when they had to dress for the christening, the detective’s colour had improved from grey to a paleness only slightly lighter than his usual tone.

The ceremony itself was astounding. The venue was the 12th-century Duomo di San Gimignano, the cathedral where Carmella’s family had worshipped for centuries, where a host of ancestors were buried. John looked around, up, sideways---everywhere his eyes fell there was beauty, though the space was much smaller than, say, Westminster Abbey or Canterbury. Once the mass started, John was able to follow it, for the most part--he’d been raised Catholic, after all. But this just seemed much more, well, _Catholic_ than he was used to—much of the service was in Latin, which John only dimly remembered from his childhood. Beautifully embroidered vestments on every celebrant harmonized with the stunning frescoes on the walls. Vessels on the altar were ancient and ornate, crafted of gold and chased silver. The altar cloth was covered in gold bullion thread.

John was glad Rosie had stayed at the palazzo with Nanny Miriam; expecting her to behave throughout this long service, in this kind of setting, was asking far too much of a toddler. John was _fervently_ glad that he wasn’t a part of the family party that approached the altar for the actual christening. Sherlock wasn’t so lucky, and had been near-vibrating with anxiety all morning, despite his currently blank expression. He stood as godfather; Carmella’s cousin Chiara, godmother.

Mycroft strode up to the altar first, the baby, clad in a flowing dress of antique lace, tucked into his right arm and Carmella holding regally to his left, followed by the godparents and both sets of grandparents. When they reached the font, the priest spoke briefly in Italian, and Mycroft carefully handed Kenelm to his brother, who placed those huge hands under his nephew’s head and bottom, while Carmella’s cousin reached in to rest her fingers on the baby’s right shoulder. Together they presented the infant to the priest, and the ceremony was underway.

Kenelm, normally a fairly placid, happy baby, was offended by the holy water trickled across his head, and his howls echoed around the high, high ceiling. Sherlock flashed a darting grin at John before returning his attention to the priest.

Sherlock, thankfully, was familiar with both the mass and this ceremony. As he’d explained over breakfast, their French grandmother had insisted on their attendance at mass throughout their summer stays with her, and both brothers had served as altar boys in their time (and, God, what wouldn’t John pay for photographic evidence of _that_?) That probably made this a little easier for him than it might have been, but even from John’s vantage point he could see the frown of concentration on his friend’s face. Migraine, anxiety, and lots of (important) strangers in a public venue seemed like Sherlock’s own personal version of Hell. And in a church, to boot.

 

 

 

 

The ceremony ended at last, with a collective sigh of relief on John and (probably) Sherlock’s part, and the crowd dispersed back into the afternoon sunshine. Buses were available for those guests who hadn’t brought their own transportation, but the family were able to climb into their own cars to be whisked back to the palazzo.

The reception was held under a huge marquee that had been erected on the groomed lawns behind the building, and caterers bustled in and out carrying dishes, wine bottles and cutlery. All of the family members headed inside first—Carmella, to put the baby down for a nap, John to go collect Rosie (who should already be dressed in her poufy party dress and shiny new shoes), and everyone to change into less-formal party attire. In Sherlock’s case, that just meant removing his tie, of course.

This party was infinitely less formal, and more enjoyable, than last night’s formal dinner. At the very front was a series of laden buffet tables, including an enormous angel sponge cake that Carmella said was traditionally served, representing good luck. Past the buffet, the vast tent was divided into several areas—an open “corral” for toddlers and very young children, with minders, simple toys and finger foods safe for little ones; a crafts area for older children, with tables arrayed with all manner of paints, beads, Legos and the like; and then the largest area set up for adults, with tables arranged around an open floor suitable for dancing. Fairy lights blinked overhead, and a DJ had begun to play a variety of music. It was loud, but not oppressive.

Initially the family party all shared one large round table, and John held Rosie in his lap while feeding her. Once that was done, though, Carmella swept her up and took her to the “little ones” area, which Rosie clearly approved of—John could see her making the rounds of each child, showing off her new dress and beaming. He lost track after that—he ate; he danced; he noted Sherlock dancing once again with his mum, and then Carmella, before the crowd swept them apart.

After about an hour, John wandered back to their table for a break, and was sitting watching the dancers when he saw Rosie thundering across the floor towards him, a flustered Carmella in pursuit.

Rosie thumped against his knees, a concerned frown on her little face. “Dada,” she piped, “Sock hurt him’s tum.”

John looked up at Carmella, who gestured eloquently above Rosie’s head, one hand on her stomach and the other covering her mouth. “We were going to wash La Principessina’s hands, and heard him. He’s behind the tent,” she said, pointing. “I told him I’d send you, though he didn’t want me to.”

 _Sodding migraine_.

“Of course he didn’t,” John sighed. He stood and grabbed two glasses of water off the table, and a clean serviette. “Carmella, can you--?” He gestured to Rosie.

Carmella rolled her eyes. Must have learned that from Mycroft.

“Of course,” she huffed. “I will take her to her grannies, and then I think perhaps it’s time for her nap, yes?” She swept Rosie up and bore her off cheerfully, ignoring Rosie’s howl of “No no nap!”.

Just as Carmella had said, John found Sherlock by the side—just past a service exit, he could hear the sound of retching coming from outside. He found his friend hunched over, one hand wrapped with white-knuckled intensity around a support rope, the other pressed against the right side of his head, covering his eye.

‘I’m here,” John said quietly, and quickly poured one of his water glasses over the serviette, putting the other glass on the ground. He wrung the cloth partially out, then stepped forward to put in on the back of Sherlock’s neck.

“I told her not to,” Sherlock groaned. Both eyes were firmly closed.

“So, you were just planning to stay out here until things got better?” John said, kneading Sherlock’s rigid neck muscles through the damp cloth.

“Or until I died. Both seemed equally likely,” Sherlock said, then dry-heaved. John picked up the other cup of water and held it to Sherlock’s lips, who got one quick sip in before the heaving started again.

“All right, sorry,” John sighed. “Won’t try that again.” He used the rest of the cup to rewet the serviette, then wiped it over Sherlock’s face. “Can you open your eyes at all?”

“Not without my head exploding,” the detective near-whispered. “That’s why I haven’t gone back to the house.”

“Come on, then,” John said. “Put your arm over my shoulder, and I’ll lead you. We need to get you lying down so I can get some meds into you.”

 

 

 

By the time they’d made their slow way into the house to Sherlock’s room, John looked up the hallway to see Mycroft striding towards them from the far end. Carmella had been busy, evidently.

“I’ve asked Andrew to bring the medical kit in from the car,” the bureaucrat said softly, reaching around John to push the bedroom door open. “If anything more extensive is required, send me a text.” John was grateful that he didn’t insist on staying—the last thing Sherlock needed now was a third party underfoot.

He lowered the detective onto his bed and tugged off his shoes before helping him lie back. Sherlock resisted that, though.

“Can’t lie on my back,” he panted. He gagged again for emphasis, and curled on his side in misery.

There was a discreet tap on the door, and John opened it to find a concerned Andrew holding the med kit. He thanked the man, dug rapidly through the large kit to see what he had to work with, then turned back to Sherlock.

“All right, here’s what we’ll do,” he said. “I’m going to give you a couple of shots—an anti-emetic, and then an injectable migraine medication. It won’t work as well as yours, but all you have of that are tablets, and you’ll never keep them down. You’ll sleep, either way, and then maybe can take a dose of the regular stuff once you wake.”

“Fine,” Sherlock breathed, and John followed the plan as proposed. Once his friend was solidly asleep, he went and gathered his own things from his room—he didn’t want Sherlock to wake up sick in the night and find himself alone.

Come suppertime, John asked Andrew to sit with Sherlock while John went and ate a quick meal in the kitchen with the rest of the family. Most of the guests were already on their way home, and no one felt like anything elaborate, so they dined on leftovers and sat at the kitchen table with their shoes off.

“I’ve changed your travel plans,” Mycroft said as John entered. “I suspect that Sherlock will need an additional day to recover, given that these things tend to run in clusters. And I know that his doctor noted that pressure changes could be a trigger, so I booked train tickets for all of you, leaving Tuesday morning. Andrew can drive you to the station—I’ll be staying the rest of the week, since Mummy and Father will be here as well and Kenelm won’t be up to travelling to England for some time.”

“Yeah, thank you, Mycroft, probably a good idea,” John said. He smiled at Mellie and Siger. “Gives Rosie more time with her grandparents as well.” Rosie beamed from her high chair—she didn’t really understand, of course, but other people smiling was usually a good thing.

It was a bit of a rough night—Sherlock woke twice, still in pain, still nauseous. After his second dose of medication, though, he slept through till morning, and John joined him. They both tottered down to breakfast at half-nine; John had made a quick stop at the nursery looking for Rosie, only to be told she was already downstairs with Carmella and Kenelm.

While they ate (well, while John ate; Sherlock sipped carefully at tea, before flinching at the light from the windows and heading back upstairs), Rosie told John all about Kenelm, and Nanny Miriam, and the party. Mind you, he didn’t understand three-fourths of it, but it was clear she was having the time of her life. The Man of the Hour lay comfortably in his mother’s arms and worked his way methodically through his bottle before drifting back to sleep. Rosie noticed, and held her finger up across John’s lips. “Him’s _seeping_ ,” she said. “Shh.”

 

 

 

In the end, they did very little that day. Mellie, Siger and Carmella’s parents went for a long drive, intending to have dinner in Florence; John, Mycroft and Carmella watched a movie in the afternoon while Rosie and Kenelm napped. Sherlock kept to his bed until late afternoon; he was better, just a bit wrung out and lethargic.

After dinner, after Rosie was in bed and the elder Holmeses called to say they were spending the night in Florence, Carmella announced that she was going to take the opportunity to have an early night. She kissed her husband’s cheek and gently put the baby in his father’s arms. “He’ll need his bottle at 11,” she said. “He’ll remind you, if you forget.”

The three men, left to their own pursuits, wandered back to the study and settled in to watch telly, settling on an old detective movie, dubbed into Italian, that none of them paid much attention to. Mycroft sat comfortably with his dozing son, and chatted while absently stroking one pale hand over the baby’s downy head. When Kenelm began to make little protests, preparing to work up to a full strop, Mycroft stood, walked briskly to Sherlock and deposited the infant on his lap before heading off to the kitchen for the bottle.

It was the oddest thing, to see those two sets of identical eyes gazing at each other. Sherlock was quite accomplished at baby-handling, given his experience with Rosie, and he managed to soothe his nephew long enough for Mycroft to return and take over the feed. The baby squawked a bit in protest, but his father calmed him, speaking to him as he would to another adult.

“Now, then, that’s not necessary,” he said calmly, holding the bottle to the baby’s lips. “See, all is well, and you are complaining about nothing.” Kenelm, remarkably calm for a newborn, latched on and settled down to business.

When the baby finished, Mycroft rose. “I’ll head off now,” he said. “Your train leaves at 11, so Andrew will be ready to go by 9:15. I’ll see you at breakfast.” Then he placed his son against his shoulder and strode off, rubbing that little back as he went.

Neither John nor Sherlock felt particularly anxious for bed themselves, having slept so late. They settled in to watch a nature documentary while making fitful conversation.

Sherlock had been quiet for some time, and John was wondering if he was dozing, when he suddenly spoke.

“Did he tell you why?” he asked. “All of this?”

“Mycroft, you mean?” John said. “Yeah, he did.”

“I thought he might,” Sherlock said. “He asked me, you know. Before Carmella.”

“Asked you what?” John said.

“Asked me if I thought he could do this. If I thought he _should_ do this,” Sherlock replied. “And I…I wasn’t sure. It was…it had been so long since I had seen that side of him. I always thought…he made it seem as if he, his _care_ for me was out of duty. No matter what he said. But with Kenelm—I’ve never seen him look like that.”

John thought back to two nights before, to Mycroft’s treatment of his brother, all the way back to his intended self-sacrifice at Sherrinford. “I have, Sherlock. And it was never about duty, I promise you. At least not entirely.”

Sherlock looked torn, but didn’t argue. “But, so, you think this—you think it’s good, yes?” he asked, in an uncertain tone that those who didn’t know him well would never believe.

“Yeah, Sherlock,” John said. “It’s really, really good.”

And Sherlock gave a small, oddly shy smile. “So do I,” he said.

**Author's Note:**

> Regular readers will recognize the Hardy family--they also play a part in Scheherezade. 
> 
> The Duomo is real, and the pictures make it look very cool indeed. I've been to Italy but never made it to Tuscany, so I had to rely on Google.
> 
> Kenelm comes from a list of Old English boys' names. I really liked it, and it was in keeping with Mycroft and Sherlock. And yes, Sherlock's name was on that list as well.


End file.
